From Umbra
by The Illegible
Summary: The Warrior of Light is an instrument of death and always has been.
1. From Umbra

There are not twelve patron gods of Eorzea but thirteen.

People forget that the Traders, who share freely with each other what would cost the world dear, remain two deities. Nald deals in metal and grain, jewels and fine cloth, all luxuries and necessities alike. If he'd walked alone, perhaps his worship would have been more widespread. Perhaps people would not hesitate to speak his name.

Because Nald's brother is a merchant too, and his wares are lives, and theirs is a shared office.

* * *

At Thal's Respite, beneath death's curved scimitar, a shadow waited, and watched, and was silent.

It wasn't a very large shadow. New, delicate fingers curled in upon themselves experimentally. Opened again.

The man who entered paid no mind at first, his steps heavy beneath the weight of his grief. This was a pilgrimage and a plea. Immin Asher left his cart laden with personal effects behind, glasses crooked atop his nose.

Saewynn, his wife, would be dead by morning.

No.

Saewynn was already dead. The primal puppet that took her body would have its strings cut. Just the same, Immin prayed her passage would be swift.

It wasn't something he wanted to see, Twelve help him.

They were supposed to build a life together. They were supposed to make a home, to have children, to tease each other old. He tried not to call it theft.

The shadow murmured, as if in conspiracy, eyes intent upon the visitor. Immin froze, and squinted, and stilled again.

There was no cry. Only the wide and patient gaze of an infant.

In his heart, Immin understood this was compensation.

* * *

Eight years, Cenric did not fit in with other children.

It helped not at all that he wandered Thanalan with his adoptive father. Immin formed ties. People smiled to meet him, as they did most merchants who sold them goods. Whether his own habit came first or the nerves Cenric cannot remember. Either way, silence earned few friends in his early life. Most were content to avoid him.

The strangeness of his features made it worse.

"Duskwight blood," Immin told him evenly when asked. Initially, Cenric had accepted that. He'd always been tall for a midlander, even then. The pale irises, the sharp nose, the cold, absolute darkness of his skin… that wasn't a combination common in desert-folk. The elezen had it, though.

When a hyuran boy with pointed ears came searching for elixers, Cenric didn't say a word.

Maybe more distant heritage was enough to look like him. Maybe it manifested differently between cases.

Maybe.

Immin was the closest thing most could get to a healer in these parts. Wealthy, foreign conjurers busied themselves in battle alongside mercenaries. The common man relied on peddlers with salves and eyedrops and inexpensive remedies. These were traveling medics who knew practical ways to treat the body's ills. His father was well-educated in such matters.

Cenric learned to follow directions, to grind herbs into paste, to pass surgical knives and bandages upon request. He could press rags into the jaws of patients so they wouldn't sever their own tongues in fits of pain. He learned that sometimes death is inevitable, and that more than stillness death empties a person's eyes of direction. Sleep was not comparable. Death divided bodies between being people and being things.

Such were their realities. And from his quiet, from the shadow fixed about his form, from his unflinching examination of wounds or corpses, from his citation of unspoken truths, from how he would occasionally stare, mouth agape, as if into the soul itself… rumor about Cenric took root.

Voidsent was the most common. Thal's spawn, next. The latter seemed to unnerve his father more than the former on occasions gossip became indiscreet.

"No voidsent could have been so unguarded," Immin had explained softly, sitting side by side on the cot their inn provided. His eyes, green and framed by unkept black hair, did not meet Cenric's own. "It was a miracle that I found you when I did. You'd never have lasted, being alone that way. Like any babe I had to find you milk. Burp you. Keep you clean and warm. Thal's spawn…" His father scowled then, and Cenric thought for a moment he was going to say something ugly. Instead, his expression shifted. Smoothed. With an exhale, Immin continued, "If Thal trusted me with something so precious as his own son, then I should count myself blessed. Don't trouble yourself."

Forgetting was easier when they were alone in a cheap room, watching Dalamud ascend. Listening to the hum of blowflies while under a thin, shared blanket.

That was enough for him. The people who watched and those who looked away. Kids who played at which would be brave enough to tap his shoulder. Adults who muttered comments under their breath or suggested Immin leave him somewhere, for his own good… they were passing scenery.

He had a father. They ate breakfast together and scoured the land before sunup for supplies. They laid traps for beasts and separated helpful plants from useless or dangerous ones. They crafted splints when those were running short and tended the daily needs of their chocobo. And in evenings they would read, or practice numbers, so that when the time came Cenric would be able to pursue his own craft.

There was no one else. They needed no one else.

It was enough.

* * *

Fourteen, they came to stay in a town called Mirage. Their journey took them far across the Sagolii, with their time in the Forgotten Springs nearly a week past. Regionally unique sabotenders grew there. According to the miqo'te, potent remedies could be distilled from venom in their needles. It was an opportunity.

Travel proved difficult. They kept to their wagon during the day, ate little. Drank what was needed and no more. Upon arriving Immin's beard had become an unruly mess—his skin raw and peeling in places. Cenric had been checking his own chin periodically for stubble, but so far nothing.

The journey left them both thinner than they began.

Most inhabitants of Mirage were hyuran, with only a few scattered lalafells. Constructed around an oasis, the trees and clay buildings offered a welcome respite. Gone were the dunes, gleaming white under the sun. In its place came soil, interrupted by scrub and grass.

Few visitors came this far south, the innkeeper told them over cups brimming with water. "Easy," Immin murmured as he took his own. Cenric could hardly breathe for drinking, found himself empty in but a few moments. He couldn't have replied if he'd wanted to. Thankfully, the next one was easier.

Their arrival was unusual enough to mark a community event. It was an occasion for exchange of not only supplies but news and tales from the road. Barely contained curiosity lurked in the scrutiny of all who saw them.

"We have an opportunity to do some good here," Immin would say later, having listened to local hurts and determined how best to attend. "We'll stay a while. Make sure they're well and can manage once we've left."

It seemed fair. He had yet to learn the price of kindness.

* * *

A jackal lay some distance beyond their gates, its eyes filmed over with a yellow-green mucus. Most of the fur had worn away, revealing countless sores and lesions. Its belly was swollen like an airship balloon. Insects swarmed at the anus, clustered on its tongue and nose until neither was visible anymore.

"Don't go near it, Immin cautioned the townsfolk. To their credit they did not.

But the flies went where they pleased.

* * *

Malena Saei fell first. She was nearing her sixty-eighth year, hair fading from its original brown into gray. Her irises were blue against weathered, copper skin. When she smiled, it dimpled her cheeks. She left three generations behind her.

Immin forbade Cenric from accompanying him as he examined the body. "It's an unnecessary risk," his father explained, wrapping a cloth over his mouth. Hempen robes covered him from head to toe. "You don't know what to look for, and it isn't worth the exposure. Stay with her family."

The entire house stank of bile and shit. Cenric tried to keep his expression empty as he offered sympathy lest disgust show up instead. When it was time for questions, he kept his voice low.

Maybe they'd noticed something. Maybe others could be saved.

It spread to Malena's grandson next, and her daughter after. Despite meeting with both, Cenric found himself mercifully spared.

The stares he faced turned hard after that. From then on, every new incident spread whispers like a disease.

* * *

This was the anger of Nald'Thal. Of that there could be no doubt.

Perhaps someone overheard when he asked Immin if this was his fault. If maybe they should leave. There was no fixing this.

(_"__That isn't true,"_ his father told him. His hands were painfully tight on Cenric's shoulders, eyes unblinking and wide and furious.

_"__Don't you dare say something so stupid in front of me again. Do you understand? Never again.")_

Perhaps any offering would have sufficed, and this was just the obvious one. A quiet young stranger with his whole life ahead. A weighty exchange without personal investment. Maybe the Twins could be tempted.

Maybe then the town would be left in peace.

A knock, loud and frantic. His father already out administering aid. The room was, at the moment, his alone.

_Something's gone wrong,_ Cenric thought. So he let them in.

* * *

They dragged him, hands bound, to a cave just past the town limits.

Desert nights were freezing compared to daylight. The sky remained clear and two moons, mismatched, circled overhead to bear witness. Bumps rippled across his skin, setting his hair on end.

_What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_

Silence. They wouldn't even look at him.

Someone must have heard. Someone must have.

Nobody came.

Gathered in shadow and stone before a makeshift altar, there was something animal in the way the townsfolk watched him enter. Wide eyes that caught the moonlight, wild and empty. No hate, no anger. Families, from elders to children, ringed the space.

"Kneel."

The mayor, a stout midlander with thin lips. His eyes creased when he laughed. In the moment, his body seemed animated by something that didn't understand the skin it wore or its warmth.

Cenric found himself speechless, frozen. One of his escorts kicked him from behind, catching his knees. Of course he crumbled.

"You should gag him," said the highlander woman quietly, unwinding a kerchief from her hair. It was the first time she'd said anything since he'd seen her, since she'd shoved him face-down into the inn floor. Since she'd dragged him here. "He wouldn't shut up the entire walk over. We can't afford distractions like that."

Mutely, pressing his mouth into a firm line, the mayor complied. When Cenric tried to struggle he found fingers digging into his scalp, his arms. Forcing him still. The fabric tasted sour, like old sweat.

Before them, resting across several crates, was a pair of scales. A dagger. The blade rippled from hilt to tip.

"To the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives, we're bound to pay with our lives in turn…"

Cenric's vision swam, burning, transforming his surroundings into a series of inarticulate shapes. The townspeople who held him did not relax their grip. His throat constricted.

_Why?_

He was shaking badly, pulse pounding in his skull. Drowning out the rest. Air whistled hard and frantic through his nose, arms trapped behind him, prayers echoing incomprehensible through the cavern.

_I'm no one. I've never done anything important._

His cheeks were slick. The mayor wasn't looking at him, but at the community he would be sacrificed for.

"…in this time of hardship, we all see the need for exchange…"

Voidsent. Child of Thal. Child left as a gift to the Twins, stolen in error. It made no difference.

He wasn't supposed to be here.

Movement. The dagger before his eyes, held in broad hands.

"First we divide the offering in equal shares. Being as the heart carries life from our leftmost side, we're weighted all of us toward survival. This's the imbalance we must correct to make an appeal."

It felt as if a worm, impossibly large, wound through him. Coiled in his stomach. Cenric retched hard against the gag, but nothing came of it. He found himself wrenched backwards by his hair.

The mayor met his gaze.

"We had none of this, before you came here," he said quietly, as if reassuring himself. "Immin's normal enough but every one of us can see something's not right in you. Probably not even hyuran."

_Not enough._

Flesh splitting at the bridge of his nose. White pain, searing. The knife jerked to either side in a diagonal motion as it was dragged away by another set of hands.

His father's hands.

"CENRIC!"

* * *

Back under the Sagolii sun, waves of heat rippled through the air. All they touched was made immaterial. Cenric found himself wandering as if in a dream.

_"__Run! Get out of here, I'll be right behind you!"_

Immin was not right behind him. Or maybe he was, for a while. The elder Asher tore his son's gag loose before Cenric gathered himself to bolt. He hadn't wiped the blood from his face yet. His hands remained bound. The wound felt crusted over.

There were a few people following him initially. Shouting to each other. Some babbling and hysterical. The words didn't register to him then, and they made even less sense in hindsight. The world had tilted, dark and unsteady around him with each step.

It was the first time he felt truly certain he was going to die.

One foot in front of the other. Again and again and again, until his lungs burned. Head down. Push forward.

He had no direction in mind. No map and no compass. Just away.

Cenric didn't stop when the voices faded, or the town itself, or the moons overhead. There was no time to cover his tracks. All he could do was outlast them, outrun them, and hope Immin would prove more determined.

Wrists swollen, throbbing behind his back. Mouth paper-dry. Weaving as he went, dunes sloping up and down underfoot like waves.

It took some moments to notice when he stopped moving. The sand seemed to shift before him, flickering like light through water. His head was full with the sound of his own wheezing.

When he crashed into the earth, it was inevitable. Cenric considered attempting to rise, then remembered he had nowhere to go. It would be the same blind march for days yet. The sun had already passed its peak, but its descent would take hours.

Maybe… maybe with rest things would be better.

* * *

He could not tell how long he remained there. Awareness faded in and out intermittently. Golden light on sand. Deep orange, bordering red. Silver against a darkened sky.

His head ached, heavy and thick and cotton-filled. With his legs he half-heartedly tried to bury himself in sand to stop his own shivering. After a time Cenric settled on collecting a pile of it to curl around instead.

Then, nothing.

Nothing for a long time after that.

* * *

It was probably a dream.

Lukewarm water crept down his throat, nearly making him choke. A skin pressed to his lips, insistent. He coughed, and for the first time there was moisture enough for resistance.

The face that obscured his vision was shrouded in white cloth. Cenric found he couldn't focus on it. Mismatched eyes, one light and the other dark. Impossible to say if blindness caused the inconsistency.

A string of shells dangled from the figure's neck, rattling gently. The skin pulled back for a moment. Careful. Patient.

It returned only once he'd grown quiet. Cenric drank for as long as he could. Impossibly, a great deal remained by the time he relinquished his hold.

There wasn't enough of him present to say thank you. Cenric barely registered being dragged, being carried onto a cart. Awareness was altogether gone by the time they started to move.

* * *

A hushed conversation, separated by cadence. If asked he would not have been able to tell whether one man spoke or two.

The subject of debt was raised. Properties and inheritance and routes to travel by.

His head rested on a sack of grain. His face was sticky with ointment but seemed clean otherwise.

Sometimes, wordlessly, he found himself prompted to drink. To eat, something tough and gamey he couldn't place.

These moments were always fleeting. Sleep took him before there was opportunity to ask a single question.

_Boy._

Sand clung to his lashes, to the corners of his eyes.

_Cenric._

_Heed me._

Light, filtering through canvas. A cold hand on his shoulder. The shrouded figure beside him. Grain and shells and the rocking cart.

_You cannot stay here._

_What comes next belongs to you. What lies behind has been claimed._

"M-My…" Immin. "My father," he croaked, "…I have to…"

_Naught remains. It is done._

Silence. A lone heartbeat.

The figure, with its mismatched eyes, refused to look at him.

_All will be well. We come to a familiar place._

_There will be time enough for the rest._

* * *

A settlement in Southern Thanalan. The Sagolii behind him. The sky shrouded in dust.

"Merchant brought you here," said the village elder beside his cot, her gaze dark and intense under a tight bun. "Said you would've died, else."

These people had been kind. They remembered and allowed him to stay regardless of memory.

"Did he have a name?" Cenric asked hoarsely, hands in his lap. From the corner of his eye, he sees her head shake.

"Don't think he wanted you chasing after him, son. We did trade and that was it. Oh," she paused. Blinked. Found a pocket and rummaged there.

"Said I was t'give you this. So you'd listen."

He held out his hand, and as if offering payment she placed a pair of wedding bands in his palm.

Immin and Saewynn. Reunited at last.

* * *

At sixteen, Cenric dedicates his life to half-truths.

Charity has its limits and his has been reached. He begins with a hempen set of clothes. A satchel. What gil won't be missed. Young man like him shouldn't want for work, his hosts argue. Folks can always use another pair of hands.

Right?

He learns quickly that what his hands can accomplish is limited. There's no competing with the Ala Mhigans, who can carry twice as much without breaking a sweat. You need familiarity for an apprenticeship and he has cultivated little. Cenric finds himself half-grown and empty of potential as door after door shuts in his face.

He is no healer. What stock his father possessed was lost with him. Still, Cenric remembers how to bandage a wound. He knows what plants will stop scarring. If he can't locate an exact match he goes by resemblance and prepares it just the same.

He spends his funds on vials and stoppers and tricks to look older. A bandana here, some kohl there. He repeats the slogans of an honest man as if he has any right to them. People respond.

Cenric does not form ties and he does not linger. It's only a matter of time before the rest of them turn, after all.

* * *

Eighteen, he has almost stopped caring. His competitors are reliable but expensive. He can only retaliate with cheap potions and outrageous claims. A dazzling smile. Cenric plays at being exotic, draped in bright fabrics that do nothing to disguise the shadow cast over him.

_Enjoy relief in the latest remedy from Thavnair! Impress your wife with a bottle of Menphina's Favor! Cure even the most stubborn ills with Phoenix Down, yours for only 800 gil!_

He remembers true medicine less with each passing day. The effort spent searching won't put food in his mouth or guarantee a sale. If customers thank him afterward because a remedy worked, Cenric assumes faith and fortune are responsible. There isn't enough substance in his work to justify gratitude.

The visions have been coming more often of late. He finds himself dragged into the memories of menders and brass blades, struggling out apologies with a laugh. Through his own headaches and vacant expressions he has found fanatics. Runaways. Murderers. Sometimes knowing makes a difference. Usually it doesn't.

Tonight he finds himself in a tavern, the air tinged by fish and torch smoke. Ouzo clouds his glass while anise unfurls over his tongue. He sits alone, searching for relief in the apathetic hum of conversation that surrounds him. Just a stranger passing through. No one of consequence.

_"__You."_

It comes from the entrance. Snarled, almost animal. Cenric doesn't turn to look. It's not a voice he recognizes and he has no interest in engaging.

People have been passing behind him for hours. Some sloppy, some heavy, some quick.

When Cenric gets jerked off his stool, he doesn't expect it. A hand, female, locks to his arm. Drags him across the floor toward the exit.

"Stop! What are you—"

He is hurtling, backwards, down the steps. Out of the tavern. The fall doesn't quite wind him but his elbows have been scraped raw against dust and gravel. His eyes are wide as he finds his assailant.

Hellsguard woman. Late thirties. Hair tied back, red skin muted under the stars. His lips move, tracing the fragments of her name.

_Say… Stay… Stray…_

Ember. Stray Ember. A customer.

He doesn't have time to gather the rest before her boot is in his gut, driving the breath from his body.

"LIAR! YOU LIAR, I COULD'VE SAVED FOR YIYIRUJI MOONS AGO!"

His head pierced, front to back. Pounding like a heartbeat, like a hammer bringing shadows forging form. The memories of others.

_Not now._

A child, slick with sweat. Lungs catching against each inhale. Round, gray face. White lashes. She clutched her mother's hand tight as she could manage.

"I COULD'VE GONE TO UL'DAH!"

He is in Mirage, twin moons mirrored in the stares of a mob. Maggots weave around bone. Air grows saturated with rot.

There is pain in his stomach, neither hot nor cold but sharp. Twisting. The cough forces Cenric inward and he tastes iron.

Stray Ember isn't done. Tears stream down her chin even as she bares her teeth. He knows then she will hate him until she dies.

"BY THE TIME THEY TOLD ME WHAT YOU'D GAVE HER DOVE WAS IN THE LAST STAGE OF BHOOT'S BLESSING!"

She had a small, upturned nose. Broad smile. Freckles. Showed talent for weaving even at nine cycles.

Lone Dove was terrified when she passed and nothing could protect her. _I don't want to go… mama please, I…_

Sightless. Corneas filmed over. Lips gone blue, tongue swollen.

Her toys have already been burned.

"Enough!" Cenric's voice sounds distant to himself, "I-I can't—"

They tore at his father's clothes, his eyes, his skin for getting in the way. Hydaelyn traded away a kind man for a cheat.

_I should count myself blessed._

It was a mistake to take him. It had always been a mistake.

Immin gave his life to protect his son. Cenric took a girl from her mother to protect himself.

There are nails dragging through his hair, locked in place. He struggles to anchor himself in that, his fingers twisting tighter.

"SHUT UP! MY GIRL'S GONE BECAUSE OF YOU! SHE COULD'VE GOT WHAT SHE NEEDED IF NOT FOR YOUR GODSDAMNED CHOCOBO FEED!"

"Hey! Enough of that!" A man's voice. Maybe the one who'd prepared his ouzo.

Scuffling across the dirt.

"LET ME GO! THIS FILTH KILLED MY DAUGHTER!"

"Take it up with the blades then." More scuffling. Cenric doesn't move, doesn't look up. Doesn't release himself. Focuses on the hitch and burn of breath. "I'll not have more of this around my business."

There is a wet hiss. It takes him a moment to recognize it as spit.

Not at him.

Silence from the figures.

Then, very quietly, the barkeep says "Go home."

Stray Ember doesn't say another word.

She doesn't have to.

* * *

Cenric doesn't know how long he stays there. Something has been severed inside him. There is an impossible distance between his mind, his body, and the world outside.

"You too. You've caused enough trouble here tonight." Shuffling. Blood in his mouth, pain like knives in his ribs. His arms and legs move of their own accord to obey.

She will not have been the first of his victims.

* * *

He fades in and out of awareness for some time. Days, months, years. It doesn't matter.

Often he finds that he is hungry and the air rests thick with spices. His clothes are torn, his hair a tangled mess. Sometimes there are coins at his feet. Mostly, people avoid looking at him.

His world is heat and wingbeats, insects and vultures and airships and the murmur of strangers. Dust clings to him. Cenric stops talking.

He sleeps when he can behind the boxes of Pearl Lane, testament to the glorious city that is Ul'dah. He offends shopkeepers whose image is tarnished on his account. More than once he finds himself beaten back with a broom or dragged away by his shirt.

Parasites take what others earn. That is their nature and he knows his.

* * *

Cenric wonders, as he sinks back into himself, if there will come a time when he does not resurface. If this empty beggar who moves without thought or foresight or even a name will simply waste away.

As in all things, this is for the gods to decide.

* * *

Whispers of Dalamud's descent don't frighten him at first. Everything here is ugly. So far as endings go it isn't a bad one.

Then slowly, slowly, he begins to look up.

* * *

As the sky erupts into flame and a dragon's scream rings across Hydaelyn, Cenric is fixed in place once more.

_You will remember this moment for the rest of your life. However long that takes._

He can taste the smoke. Around him people run, weep, cling to each other. Children shriek for parents who have left them behind. Prayers for protection erupt from masses ready to trample all in their path.

There are things no man can escape. Bahamut is one of them.

Standing, his gaze locked on the inferno swallowing Eorzea, Cenric can only laugh.

* * *

The city becomes unbearable following the Calamity as refugees pour in. Aether burns and missing limbs grow familiar. Native residents regularly fight against newcomers. With too much company on the streets, he leaves.

Thanalan itself has been scarred, crystals jutting uneven across the landscape. The year that follows is unusually dry. In the name of business water itself becomes expensive. Gridania and Limsa Lominsa profit. Those who can't manage waste away.

Cenric goes without when he can, a decision based only somewhat in practicality. The world is dizzying, parchment-dry, unfocused. He is destitute.

And he's taken enough as it is.

Today Cenric sits under an awning at The Coffer and Coffin. Shade proves only marginally cooler, but marginally remains better than not at all.

He won't stay here. He only needs somewhere to rest without beasts.

When a miqo'te barmaid carefully presses a cup into his hands, at first he doesn't follow.

"I can't afford it," says Cenric hoarsely. His hands tremble as he tries to return the gesture.

She's younger than him, maybe seventeen. Sweat makes tawny strands of hair stick together. Her eyes are blue and her smile is sincere.

"That's alright," she says casually. Evenly. Pressing her hands over his so he won't spill. "I can."

Cenric is struck still and silent, unable even to blink. The miqo'te quirks her mouth and slowly lets go. Straightens. Walks away without looking back.

It's a terrible waste. Nonetheless, he finds himself sobbing and unable to stop.

* * *

By twenty-four, his turn has come.

Initially he ignores it. A persistent cough. Pain that grates like swallowed needles. Unsteadiness across his limbs and skin gone ashen. Fire under his eyes.

When he can no longer keep food down it becomes real.

His vision blurs the first time he's sick. Sour, meager results that wrack his entire body regardless. Cenric leans against the walls of Camp Drybone to keep steady. His lips are slick in the aftermath. Of course people give him a wide berth and pretend not to see.

It's disgusting.

The Church of Saint Adama Landama has been treating those they can and burying those they can't. These are things he has no right to, no desire for.

Besides. Thal's Respite isn't far.

* * *

_Hear._

Myotragus goats bleating low. Horns locked in tests of dominance. Crashing hooves. Grunts from passing tuco-tucos. The steady thrum of insects. Distant, muffled wings circling in endless repetition.

No wagon wheels. No muffled conversation.

Instead, a persistent throb through his temples. Hitching when he breathes.

Silence stretching on and on in missed opportunities.

Nobody would notice. Cenric wants, desperately, to scream.

He doesn't.

His throat hurts.

_Feel._

Blowflies gnawing at the back of his neck. Dirt under fingernails. Clammy, twitching flesh. His own perspiration. Fluid viscera he imagines will erupt from his lips. Shaking, shoulders to fingertips. Being flayed alive by the sun.

Azeyma the Warden takes confession. With her golden fan and unwavering gaze, maybe she still expects something more.

Keep moving forward. Don't look up.

It's too late.

_Think._

Stain [Smite] Suffer [Sin] Serve [Spite] Stumble [Save] Strive [Steal] Grieve [Turn] Lie [Leave] Pray [Lose] Cure [Tell] Sunder [Sleep] Fall [Stay] Plead [Hate] Feel [Want] Shoulder [Bleed] Weep [Learn] Follow [Flee] Roam [End] Falter [End] Seek [End] Wish [End]

No more.

* * *

No more.

* * *

Through stone and shadow the passage goes.

Through the womb of Hydaelyn herself, well-worn.

She stands beyond what the Twelve are, what they ever could be. Disciples call her Mother. They know her through the blind, unquestioning devotion of children.

There is truth in this… if an incomplete one. She cannot keep them forever. Fragile, temporary things are made precious for being so. They live with the promise of death at her blessing.

And so Thal waits within the earth, watching over this seat of creation. He memorizes those who arrive, those who exit. Souls birthed in the Lifestream—unscarred by trials ahead.

Thal seeks out the shapeless. He whispers, gently, _I await your return._

They will not be alone in the dark.

In this place a man delirious, convinced of his own divinity, comes to kneel.

* * *

To the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn. From the start, mine has been yours. Any gifts were not charity but an investment. I can never own myself… those who linger with me fall one by one into your hands. You've taken—

No.

I gave these people as my expense.

They call you Nald'Thal the canny, Nald'Thal the fair. Judge and equalizer and Prince of Hagglers. You, too, are Twins and Traders and the God of Two-Tongues.

Please, I…

…I…

There is nothing left. I have nothing to offer you. This is all I am. My debts are endless. I've cheated others out of their lives. Your seven hells are mine to walk.

It… it burns everywhere…

The people of Mirage thought my worth enough to bribe you, once. If this is true then take me.

_Please take me._

I can't be an instrument of your will.

All Hydaelyn moves out of reach. There is no one else. I've… I've turned into a creature so empty the only thing left is my beating heart.

Life means something to you, doesn't it?

_DOESN'T IT?_

…

I don't mean to offend. There's… there's nowhere to go. Anything spent on me could be used better on another.

Why am I here?

Immin was worth saving. Lone Dove was worth saving. My customers, the people of Eorzea... you could have left any of them. They deserved it.

We lie and steal and destroy each other over nothing. I can't stand to look.

And still there are exceptions.

You take the virtuous then leave snakes behind.

Spare them. There are few enough as is.

* * *

…to the blessed traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn aether born fire-walker your will sees us to rest we entrust ourselves to your sight forged of oschon for peace and prosperity and an ending you do not weep for father azeyma lives in the earth with you her fan brings no breeze the air is hot and thick and breathless your domain a silent place that does not stir have you forgotten the sound of your own voice have you known what it is to live and fail have you been alone do you know what it is to die how can a god pass judgment without being judged nald'thal lord of departures of flame and sand whose coin purse overflows who knows not what it means to starve what it means to spoil the legacy of one who loved you nald'thal who holds shells and souls and precious stones as if their worth were equal nald'thal who cannot know mercy without knowing pain who are you to weigh mortal affairs?

* * *

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn…

_I'm sorry._

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn…

_Forgive me._

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn…

_Punish as I've earned._

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn…

_Let it end._

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we're bound to pay with our lives in turn…

_Please let it end._

* * *

Rain falls over Eastern Thanalan like a broken fever. Yuyudana, priest of Thal, works behind a partition to break bread with visitors. Hyur and Roegadyn pilgrims often find it difficult to read age onto Lalafellian features. With only the barest flush remaining in his cheeks, Yuyudana can declare himself firmly middle-aged. The hood of his robe conceals a head edged in gray and he does not begrudge himself the omission. It is a convenient vanity.

Across from him sits one of two companions. U'thac Tia is a counterpart from Nald's Reflection, arrived nearly a month past to compare notes on scripture. U'thac is a man who left clan and kin behind for a life of spirituality. The argumentative zeal he holds for his faith proves amusing and exhausting in turn. A wiry, sun-dark miqo'te—U'thac might have been a contender for Nunh had he felt so inclined. Good or ill, this proved beyond his interests.

The other is a more straightforward case. Memesu Mesu hails from Ul'dah, a woman dedicated body and soul to thaumaturgy. With brilliant yellow eyes and a chestnut complexion, Yuyudana estimates her to be thirty cycles or so. U'thac took her for far younger at first. Fortunately for him the caster was amused, and she occasionally calls him "kid" as a gentle reminder.

Memesu means only to pay respects. Nald'Thal has been good to her. Through years of piety and labor she now enjoys a life of small luxuries. Each comes as a blessing she knows could be withdrawn between heartbeats.

Memesu took leave to pray before breakfast. The sun has yet to rise and as she went the world was silent. Later she will hike to the Burning Wall, practicing spells along the way. Take her lunch at the nadir and make her way back before sundown. It is a period of routine and quiet reflection, away from the complications Ul'dah has to offer.

U'thac, still groggy, slumps across the table even as Yuyudana sets it. Initially he'd tried to lend his assistance but found it graciously declined by his host. "I am not your mentor," Yuyudana had said, "or your parent, or your superior. Be at peace."

There is precious little of that in such times.

When Memesu returns, eyes wide, gasping between words due to haste, Yuyudana listens in silence. Begins to walk before U'thac has finished gathering himself.

Bahamut was a shock. With the advance of Garlemald and her sister evils, despair is not uncommon.

* * *

Cold hands on his sleeve, on his arms, in his hair.

_First we divide the offering in equal shares. Being as the heart carries life from our leftmost side, we're weighted all of us toward survival._

Cenric does not miss a beat in his recitations even as he struggles. Twisting, bending into himself, thrashing, stumbling as the world tilts sharply to one side.

Someone he doesn't recognize speaks a language he barely understands.

_Sleep._

The candles glow brighter, out from the center of his vision before darkening at the edges. As if his joints have been unhinged he is dragged by his own weight to the floor. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, magic pumping through him like a drug.

When he opens his mouth again there is no sound.

* * *

A palm on his forehead, beyond temperature. Smoothing sweat-matted hair out of the way, thumb traveling back and forth.

_You have time yet._

He cannot tell who speaks, only that the tone reminds him of Immin.

_Rest._

_I would see you well._

* * *

A bitter, chemical taste. Traces of glimshroom. Syrup gliding across his tongue. Cenric tries to cough, to spit it out.

This time a small hand covers his lips. "Swallow." The order comes from a man, his voice high but steady.

Cenric's back arches as he tries to break free, to twist his face out of reach.

More hands trapping his shoulders. His torso.

"You need this. Swallow."

The sound building in him is animal, desperate. A gateway for the medicine. It goes down. When they let go he wails and it is _mindless_.

* * *

_I can't. I can't. I can't._

* * *

Every time, the same routine. They try to explain. They try to convince him. They want this to be easier.

His arguments come out of order and none are taken seriously.

Sometimes when he sleeps Cenric thinks someone sits with him.

It's easier not to wake up.

* * *

"Hey."

A female voice this time. Flat. Neither impatient nor pitying.

He doesn't move.

"I know you're awake. Your eyelids don't move the same way." A beat. "It's just me. Come on."

Reluctantly, Cenric looks.

A Lalafellian woman. Older than him. She keeps her hair long and neat, face framed in darkness. Behind her he finds the interior of a small, dimly lit hut. Decoration proves sparse, books the greatest extravagance in sight.

It doesn't hurt anymore.

"Good. We had doubts you were even Spoken." Silence. "What's your name, boy?"

This catches him. He's been grown for some time now. Cenric would be surprised if his visitor was even ten cycles his senior. "…Cenric," he rasps. Shakily, he sits up. Finds a straw mattress beneath him. "I'm Cenric Asher."

"Cenric," she says smoothly, "you owe me. I traveled from Ul'dah to Eastern Thanalan for some peace and quiet. You've stolen my time through this affair."

He looks down, unsure whether to apologize or not.

She could have ignored him.

"All I ask in return is a little cooperation. Do that and there's no loss. Can you manage?

Cenric finds her face once more. The tense jaw betrays what would otherwise read to him as indifference. He exhales.

"I don't care. Use me how you will."

She studies him for several moments. "Fine," she says at length, "I am Memesu Mesu. Do try to be honest with me. It can only serve us both." Her fingers press together delicately. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?"

The question deflates him like a blow. Cenric rests his head in one hand, searches for language he can answer with.

"I don't know," he murmurs eventually.

"Do you want to die?"

"I…" He stops, catches himself mouthing the question back mutely.

The Traders refused him. Their trap remains. Cenric shuts his eyes.

"Everything, everyone I touch I… it's like an infection. If dying ends that then so be it."

Memesu leans back in her chair. It creaks. "So says the Son of Thal, eh?"

He starts, finds her again. Memesu's expression is almost scornful, a bitter smile twisting across her lips.

"You're a fool," she declares, "and a blasphemer. Probably a little mad. But you do have an obscene amount of aether at your disposal. I'd be remiss if I didn't touch on that snatch of fever-speech."

He stares at her. Memesu folds her arms and narrows her gaze.

"You're remarkably hyur-shaped for someone who thinks he's born from the Twins," she comments. "Nald'Thal is nothing if not meticulous. You'd need an exceptional share of authority to perform judgment in his stead. Kind of egotistical, don't you think?"

Cenric shrugs. Focuses on knees, buried under a blanket.

"Anyway," says Memesu, "what you are doesn't matter. If you've got natural talent for killing, maybe you should learn how to direct that properly."

"I don't want to kill anyone," he whispers.

The lalafell sighs, takes another moment to respond. "Is that so? It sounded to me like you've done your share already. Here I thought you might like saving people for a change."

This time, he listens.

* * *

For lives unjustly taken, life is owed. For the unjust taking lives, death is owed.

For those he can yet save, a thaumaturge brings salvation.

For those he can yet stop, a thaumaturge brings pain.

Restitution and retribution. Thus is the will of Nald'Thal known through his disciples.

* * *

Cenric bathes in the Yugr'am River at U'thac's suggestion. "It'll be good for you," he'd said. Moreover, the smell was unbearable. An unspoken plea in the miqo'te's eyes was enough to make that point perfectly clear.

He can't remember the last time he'd bothered cleaning himself. Weeks, months. There had been no reason. He would die in disgrace. It was the only future left he could see.

And yet.

If the Twelve intended him to survive through their service, at a certain point he would need to do better. For efficiency if nothing else. Filth made it easy to get sick and difficult to recover. The results would benefit no one.

In darkness he unwinds the black bandana, steps first from his slops and then his kurta. Yuyudana has provided robes, which rest neatly on a small rock nearby. It crosses Cenric's mind that the bones of his knees, his hips, his wrists, even his face have all started to protrude strangely. He looks less hyuran than before, maybe less than he ever has. Closer to something priests would exorcise than anyone deserving aid.

He wonders if this idea has occurred to them.

The water, when he advances, is cold. Goosebumps raise across his skin as slowly, gingerly, he wades in to his waist.

Cenric ducks under.

His hair is a long and tangled wreck. Being wet only disguises this slightly. It drifts past his neck, comes to float near the surface. Cenric holds himself in silence, eyes open, watching the silver scatter of light over stones and plants and fish. He remains for as long as he can bear.

His vision stings afterward. Gasping, he can't tell if the cause is exposure or something else. For a time he simply waits, breathing hard through his nose, hunched so that his lips are partially submerged.

He thinks of nothing, pretends that this time instead of no future he has no past.

Only one moon remains. Maybe the sky aches for losing Dalamud, but better that than the blow which scarred Eorzea.

* * *

For a time, his sleep is dreamless.

He eats what he is given. He cleans the shrine. He recites his prayers without expectation.

Memesu waits.

* * *

Why is it, the student asks, that only Ul'dah worships Nald and Thal separately? Ul'dah who holds them in such esteem?

You see, the Traders share a secret title. One which most would call sacrilege.

In scripture our god of wealth and death exists as Oschon's creation. Nald'Thal comes forged from Hydaelyn herself, a force of order over his kin. The statues and murals are not ambiguous. His solitary form rises from flame and rock and is whole.

In good manners, the thaumaturge explains, people will claim both brothers exist in a single body. That they share freely with each other what would cost the world dear. That there are not twelve patron gods of Eorzea but thirteen.

Time and again, they shy from the possibility that Nald'Thal is simply insane.

* * *

Cenric sits on the floor, draped in a white cotton tunic. It might have been snug on a Roegadyn but anyone else would find ample room. Behind him, Memesu stands on a cot holding shears. Gold earrings dangle on either side of her face.

"I fought at Carteneau, you know," she mentions casually. There is a soft _hsssssshhhh. Click._

Hair hits the floor. Coils.

He starts to shake his head, aborts the gesture partway through. Stills. "…you saw Bahamut?"

Memesu snorts. "I'm sure everyone this side of Hydaelyn saw Bahamut." _Click._

"That's probably true," he concedes. The dragon is what everyone knows, everyone remembers. He can't imagine the proximity. "What about the Warriors of Light?"

"Pff." Gentle tugging at his scalp. Cenric does not open his eyes but leans into the motion. "I wasn't of rank to see their like. Not that I'd remember. Stop moving." _Click._

Cenric hesitates.

"What do you remember, then?"

For a time, the only sound comes from blades and a thousand strands cut short. This lasts for several minutes. Cenric resigns himself to secrets.

Then, "I used to think I was special too. As a twin. My sister was Memeni. We studied together."

_Was._

The exhale hits him slowly, quietly.

"She died?"

He can feel the shrug in her hip against his shoulder.

"It was Carteneau," says Memesu. "Of course she died."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" _Click._ "It had nothing too do with you. If you keep trying to claim responsibility for every misfortune you find, you're going to get self-important."

Cenric only grunts, quiet and non-committal.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

"Carteneu was so much worse than people remember. Only four years later and already we hurry to dispose of details." There is a hard undercurrent to Memesu's voice, but what contact she makes remains light. Careful. "I remember the arcanist from Limsa who didn't dodge a magitek canon in time. Miqo'te. Spells come faster in that discipline, so there's less stress on distance than thaumaturgy. Girl got careless." _Click._ "The mess smelled like rotten eggs and charcoal. Her face was… melted." _Click._ "I try not to look in those situations. They only make casting harder. But she was so close."

Cenric doesn't move. Doesn't say a word.

Memesu continues. "One of our own gladiators, an Ala Mhigan, took to mutilating any pureblooded Garleans he could catch. The man had a string of eyes hanging around his neck. I'm pretty sure one enemy officer wet himself before he started to beg. Not that it particularly mattered."

_Click._

"Memeni… didn't anticipate what she was getting herself into. She saw magic as a way of being useful to craftsmen. My focus has always been theoretical. Right side." Startled, Cenric lets her guide his jaw to get a better view of his profile. _Click. Click._ "Meni used to think I was a priss. She preferred to develop magitek kettles alongside alchemists. See if she could find a way to capture light like the Mhachi did. She still enjoyed fishing when she could, even though it smelled awful. Never outgrew the braids she wore growing up. " Memesu sighs. "…just understand she died afraid, in pain, and with things left undone. My sister didn't even resemble herself at the end."

Cenric is very still. Thinks carefully.

"…I wish it could have gone differently," he says at last.

Memesu's mouth slides up in a small, crooked smile. She tousles the neat, ear-length hair before her. "So do I."

* * *

Black magic (like its patron, like the desert itself) has two faces.

Heat and light, movement and sound. Ever hungry. Ever expansive. Astral fire rains from the stars, heaven stretched pitiless across the land. This he will someday channel, will someday master.

First though, the other. Cold and darkness, unmoving and silent. What constricts and what preserves. Umbral ice that creeps with every heartbeat to harden blood and bone.

Threaded between are words for sleep and lightning. The language of angels, the promise of their rebuke.

Cenric's spell bends him backwards, stiffening the pit of him. It winds up his spine and curls off his tongue. Hands shape aether into figures it was always meant for.

He is left wanting in the aftermath.

* * *

"Wishes are cheap," Memesu tells him. "We have a responsibility to live in a way that honors our dead. Their chance is spent. This is the best we can do."

* * *

All creation has its opposite. Hydaelyn knows this, as she must. It is her nature and her mistake.

The brightest fire still leaves ash in its wake. Rain-black clouds will thread themselves with lightning. There is meaning in contradictions, meaning in change.

What she perceives comes through a kaleidoscopic awareness. Fractal visions of men, women, beasts varied as the stars above. Breathing and undead stand locked together against a current which threatens to drown them. Such is the Lifestream.

For now all exist as creatures delicate and fleeting. They call out for protection, for their Mother who will surely save them. Who will surely answer.

Hydaelyn gives her blessing, if not her favor. How can she favor any with such a multitude? It is a careful, pragmatic choice. Instinctive. Neither more nor less than what is destined.

Her champion will be complete in every way she has sundered herself.

* * *

Before long, it is time for U'thac to return.

Nald's attendant is closest to his own age, perhaps four or five cycles older. The intersection of worship between Qarn and Mhach has been reviewed, notes taken, passages dissected. There is no further need for his presence as Southern Thanalan beckons him home.

The morning of his departure is a leisurely one. Bright and warm, holding the promise of manageable heat in later hours. Yuyudana wakes before the rest of them and prepares a meal of bread, tea, tuco tuco sausages, and vulture eggs. Memesu inquires after the route he has planned. It is a familiar path.

They all seem surprised when Cenric offers to escort the Seeker to Highbridge. In the ensuing silence he wonders, briefly, if he's made a mistake. But U'thac claps a hand to his shoulder and replies, "I'd be glad for yourrr company. Walk with me." Cenric hears a grin in his voice before he sees it, and some of the tension winding down his spine dissipates.

They say nothing at first. U'thac has no chocobo, carries his belongings with him in a pack of middling weight. Only when the hut is out of sight does Cenric tell him, quietly, "I want to thank you."

Dark eyebrows rise. He finds himself the subject of an amused, if puzzled, scrutiny. "It was no trouble. I played a small rrrole."

He shakes his head. "I'd be dead if you hadn't been here." Pressing his mouth into a line, Cenric focuses on the sound of grass crunching underfoot. Better that than the attention he's brought upon himself. "I invited the easiest ending I could find. The others wouldn't have been able to stop me alone."

A rumble from U'thac's chest, deeper than his voice. "Don't be so sure. Even a lalafell might have managed the fight you put up."

"You brought me back."

The miqo'te shuts his eyes, shaking his head. "Aye. But rrrespectfully, you weigh almost nothing."

Despite himself, Cenric finds a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Just the same."

This earns a snort. U'thac Tia folds his arms behind his head and returns the expression. "Very well. If you insist, I suppose I'll accept your gratitude." Lidded eyes flit up to the hyur's face. "But if you must hold me to account, there is a matterrr we should discuss."

Cenric nods his assent, says nothing.

U'thac twitches an ear lazily. Doesn't slow. "I was raised to love the Warden Azeyma. This has not lessened overrr the years, even in my service to Nald'Thal. Scripture tells they rrrule the Heaven and Hell of Fire together. Why is that?"

Cenric shakes his head. "You refer past my studies."

U'thac flashes his teeth, which are very white. "It is not a matterrr of study." Then he pauses. Appears to consider his next words carefully. "…Azeyma the Unblinking pays witness to all we do. Every kindness, every sin. It's why she presides over confession. I find Nald'Thal also places great worrrth on such things. The Traders use our deeds to decide the weight of a soul upon death."

The priest sighs. Lowers his arms to his sides. "Ul'dahns often believe that they can buy passage to Thal's Halls. They forrrget that the gods have no use for something so fleeting as coin. It's the principle of currency, of value, that Nald'Thal stands for."

Cenric looks down. It feels as though someone has filled his chest with lead.

_The Traders use our deeds to decide the weight of a soul upon death._

"…why are you telling me this?"

A hand comes to rest, not unkindly, on his shoulder. "Don't despair," says U'thac, "you'rrre alive yet. All I mean is that the time you have left matterrrs. You can still help people. You can still save lives. That counts, too. You are more than your mistakes alone."

Sightless. Corneas filmed over. Lips gone blue, tongue swollen.

A child who knew her mother couldn't save her.

It took hours for Lone Dove to die.

"Don't make the mistake," says Cenric, numbly, "of telling me I can balance against what's been done. I don't know how many I've killed. I ran away. I told myself that if I didn't see it, it didn't happen. The only reason I stopped was because someone caught up."

They are no longer walking.

He finds himself turned, firmly, to face the miqo'te. "Cenric." Green eyes. Thin pupils. Smile gone. "Underrrstand. I would not tell everyone what I am telling you. There are those who would use charity as a means to securrre paradise. Any good they did would be for themselves. I am not worried about that now."

A tufted tail lashes behind the priest in agitation.

"If you care about causing pain," says U'thac, "use that. Save otherrrs from it. You have a resource the dead lack. That is _invaluable_. Do you follow?"

Cenric blinks. Blinks again.

Breathes.

"I follow."

* * *

He gives his word before they bid farewell.

* * *

Yuyudana finds his charge eager for more tasks to perform. Initially he says no.

Cenric seems better than he was. Although naturally lean, the more alarming edges he'd acquired are filling in. Sometimes he participates in conversations. Quirks his lips. Suggests solutions to day-to-day inconveniences. The hollow look he'd held initially has faded. Strange as the man might be, he actually resembles a person now.

There remain moments when something appears to possess him. His skin drains to gray, his vision loses focus, any control he might have had over his body slips. These instances are always silent. It can take moments or a few minutes for him to regain his senses. Sometimes the aftermath sees him mute and trembling. Others he only exhales and apologizes before excusing himself.

It had been difficult to tell at first, but Yuyudana suspects now that Cenric can't be more than twenty-five cycles in age. This revelation added to his condition has made the priest reluctant to allow undue burden. He can focus on his education and practice with the thaumaturge. More than that is unnecessary.

He ought to be in the prime of his life right now.

And yet, idleness seems not to suit him. Despite orders to the contrary Yuyudana still finds floors swept, supplies stocked, shelves ordered. This occurs at odd hours when it would be impossible to catch the culprit responsible. He has yet to find Cenric taking time to rest that is not dedicated to sleep, food, or other necessities.

"You have hobbies, yes?" the lalafell asks one afternoon, while Memesu hunts a wandering couerl. Cenric pauses over the text in his lap.

"…there hasn't been much opportunity," he replies. After some uncertainty he adds, "I prefer to keep busy. It's something worthwhile."

Yuyudana considers this for several days afterward. Much of the exchange remains unspoken, a barely-scabbed over wound they are both taking care to avoid.

It would be a mistake to press the subject.

* * *

Eventually, he relents. Preparing offerings is simple enough so far as tasks go. Company would be welcome.

His request is received with disbelief. The hyur stares, wide-eyed and frozen and apparently lost to words.

When Cenric collects himself, it's the first time Yuyudana sees him truly smile.

"Thank you."

* * *

He waits for her at the entrance to the Burning Wall, as the sky begins to darken. Spires of aether twist and pierce the land, cradling rock formations in ways that almost seem deliberate. The structure glows gently against the sunset.

Memesu approaches as a patch of night, eyes bright under a wide-brimmed hat. A collar conceals her expression. Cenric doesn't wave but raises a hand tentatively in greeting. Memesu mirrors this.

"Have you been waiting long?" she asks, approaching the stone Cenric sits on. He scoots over before she can ask, and the lalafell hoists herself to sit beside him.

"A while," he admits. "I needed to think."

Memesu snorts quietly, but doesn't criticize. It's the very reason she came to this corner of Eorzea herself, after all.

"If I'm honest," Cenric goes on, "there's something I want to ask you about."

Thin eyebrows lift as she studies him. "And you're in an honest mood, I trust." It is not a question, although he imagines it ought to be. Under her gaze he feels like an insect pinned to a board for dissection. "What ails you?"

It's a subject that's worried him for months. He's imagined himself hesitating, phrasing things a thousand ways, talking around the issue instead of defining it in any intelligible manner.

"Why," he asks simply, "are you trying to save me?"

She stares at him, her mouth forming a tight, thin line. After some moments Memesu only says, "Are you asking me not to?"

"No," answers Cenric. It occurs to him this might even be true. "But you know what I've done. It's just a strange amount of effort for a… for a liar."

This is the most delicate way he can phrase it. Whether it's for her or himself he couldn't say.

"Not so strange," she replies, "for a sick beggar who could be someone better." Memesu plants her palms behind her, leans into them. "I detest waste."

He contemplates this for several moments. The breath he'd been holding escapes.

"Tch," she mutters eventually, tilting her face toward the sky. "Apologies. It's not just that." Cenric glances back. The lalafell's expression is almost peaceful. She continues. "I detest suffering, too. Seen enough. Something in this Twelve-forsaken world will be better because of me." A wry smile ghosts over her mouth. "Lucky you."

Yellow eyes glint against the light. Cenric shivers, but asks nothing more.

* * *

Yuyudana, returned from a burial ceremony at the Church of Adama Landama, finds him holding a book he isn't reading. Despite candles, the hut is darker than the new-evening sky. Cenric has his chair positioned so close to the wall that simply by leaning right he'll find its support. He does this, eyes unfocused, trapping a page carefully between ink-black fingers.

"Are you well?" asks the priest. Rather than start, Cenric only blinks. Winces. Rubs the bridge of his nose with one knuckle.

"Aye," he mumbles. Hesitates. Looks down at the text. "Only distracted."

The funeral had been for an elderly goldsmith. Lalafell. He'd left behind a wife, four children, more grandchildren. They made a comfortable living without managing opulence, and had covered the expenses for all sprite cores necessary in the last rites.

Ice, to halt corruption. Lightning, to expel the sins of mortal life. Fire, to cleanse any remains for their return to the earth. Channeling each element with subtlety, in conjunction with appropriate embalming procedures, was essential to preserving the body's integrity. A more delicate practice than most thaumaturges employed today, but linked nonetheless.

The goldsmith had been a gruff and distant man, but a good one. His family had seemed almost hesitant in their grief, unsure whether such open displays would meet his approval.

There is a seat across the table. Yuyudana takes it.

"If I may," he says, "you might find it helpful to exorcise the matter."

Cenric stares at him, irises startlingly white and inscrutable in the moment. He does not speak.

Yuyudana shakes his head, rueful. "Ah, pay me no mind. The day bleeds over. For all I know you may be busy contemplating our axebeak problem."

A faint smile crosses the hyur's lips. "They are rather loud," he replies. The expression passes, replaced by something tense. Cenric's eyes flit down. "But no, there… maybe you're right. I've avoided this."

Gently, he slides a leather marker into the book. Closes it. Folds both hands on the table in front of him, resting between perched elbows. The way he leans forward makes him seem smaller than he is.

"I was raised by a man named Immin Asher," says Cenric. He still doesn't look up. "Maybe I was abandoned. Maybe it was something else. Either way, he took me in. In every sense but blood, he was my father."

A beat. Lips pressed firm then slowly, deliberately relaxing.

"Immin taught me what he could. The last time I really studied it was with him. Letters, arithmetic, histories… things of that nature. Strict man, but he made sure I understood." Hesitation. Fingers knitting together tightly. When he continues it is quiet, cautious. "…long dead, now."

Yuyudana takes in the shoulders, the false scrutiny directed more to avoid sight than take anything in.

He decides, privately, that this is shame.

"You miss him." There is no need to ask. Cenric nods anyway, the gesture stilted.

"I do." The breath snags almost imperceptively, and now the pale eyes skirt toward the door. Back again. His head dips. "Immin owed me nothing, and still he… whatever else I doubted, it was never him. He could have settled with keeping me safe, but he wanted me to be happy too and I—look what I've done."

At this, the edge of his words begin to strain.

"He would've been alive if not for me," says Cenric, "and he would be so disappointed if he knew what came after. I should have _thanked_ him, honored him somehow. There's no apologizing for something like this."

"Be at peace," says Yuyudana softly. The younger man closes his mouth. Waits. "You said yourself that your father wanted you to be happy.

Silence. Cenric's jaw rigid against the workings of his throat.

"I don't want," he says eventually, hoarsely, "to be someone he would regret."

* * *

When the time comes for Memesu to return to Ul'dah, neither of them is truly prepared.

She has enlisted a chocobo porter, having gathered her belongings in a pack that nearly matches her size. The overly decorated cauldron she prefers. A small collection of incense. Spare hats and meals and gathered materia. It seemed like so much more, spread out as it was. The space will feel emptier without her.

They avoid the subject before her departure, reviewing skywatcher predictions and how she's raided the Golden Bazaar without actually addressing their separation. Cenric can feel Yuyudana's eyes on him through the evening.

He approaches when they turn in for the night, but it catches in his throat. "Sleep well," he bids her, before turning to his own bedroll.

She says nothing.

* * *

Standing before the bridge together, so early stars have yet to truly fade, she has a gift for him.

"I want to be sure," she mutters, "that you don't embarrass me at the ossuary. These clothes will ensure you blend in well-enough. As for the rest…"

A weathered staff, faint discoloration to mark the grip of its previous owner.

"…it was my sister's, once. Would've been good for naught but scrap if not for you. Do try and take care of it."

He can't answer, choked with questions and protests and gratitude that threatens to bring him to his knees. So he simply nods and holds the bundle close.

Memesu has her gaze trained on the horizon, deep blue crawling into lavender. "Friend of mine, Brendt, should be fine to give you a ride. You'll have until the third umbral moon to summon a blizzard properly and enlist yourself with the guild. Cocobuki will be the one to talk to, though their secretary can be an obstacle in her own right…"

"Memesu."

Cenric hears himself speak as if divorced from the act. Memesu starts. Meets his face. Averts her eyes again. He kneels.

The lalafell has her arms folded in front of her, clutching both elbows, brow furrowed. A mask of impatience. He hesitates, then smiles.

"I can never repay what you've given me," Cenric murmurs. "I promise it won't be in vain."

Now, she looks at him. There is something terrible in her expression then, eyes shining, mouth parted in an unspoken reply

She blinks, rapidly, and it is gone. In it's place sits a grin, the likes of which he's never seen before.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Asher."

* * *

He kneels before the altar and bows his head. Nymeia lilies rest over stone, crisp and bright and dying. They lie bound together between gold bands. Candles flicker against the damp.

"Duality lies at the essence of all things," Cenric recites. "The sun rises in the east, only to fall in the west. Just as life rises in birth, only to fall in death."

There is no echo here. Instead, the cavern seems to absorb all sound. His prayer comes muted, private.

He doesn't need to look upon his god to know him. Thal's likeness has a narrow jaw. High cheekbones. Thin lips. His eyes shut in the impression of patience.

"It's been some time," says Cenric, "since I asked anything of you."

This sees no answer, as expected. He exhales slowly.

"I have little to offer," the hyur continues, "but these are my most precious possessions. It's past time the rings were returned to your care."

Maybe nothing changes. Maybe the air grows heavy with expectation.

It is very dark.

"I know death lies before me," Cenric says. "Hopefully life does also. But before I take myself from this place, I…"

He closes his eyes in turn. A twin to the idol.

Eventually, he whispers, "You've seen too much of me for this."

No disagreement. No encouragement.

Then, "I beg you. Watch over those I've delivered into your hands. Give comfort to their loved ones, their families. Help them find some measure of peace."

A drop of water glides down its stalactite, plummets to a shallow pool below.

The collision resonates.

"Guide my hands," Cenric says. "Keep me from my old mistakes. Help me preserve more than I destroy."

By such frail firelight, one can almost imagine that Thal is alive.

* * *

_Hear._

A beating heart. The turn of a wheel. The voice of a goddess, neither commanding nor beseeching.

Her invitation.

_Feel._

Warmth and sunlight. Dust like stars or stars like dust. Uncertain footing. Certain steps.

_Think._

A beginning.

A promise.

A purpose.

An answer.

* * *

May the Traders nurture our fortunes as They kindle the flames which burn within us all.


	2. Epilogue

It is in the wake of Ultima, as the Seventh Astral Era dawns, that a visitor approaches Mirage.

The settlement is smaller, wearier than it was some twelve years past. It marks itself in worn buildings, sparse vegetation, sparser people. What few remain band together against the elements and forgotten tragedies. As much as anyone can be, they are comfortably abandoned.

The sky blazes blue overhead. From the north, through heat that makes sand ripple like water, comes a behemoth. The stranger reclines almost lazily atop its back, his seat swaying with every step. Metal ornaments clatter from the harness in the way that bells clatter.

Perhaps this Warrior of Light makes a joke of his title. Beyond a strange complexion, he presents himself with every morbid luxury black magic has to offer. Gem-studded robes, a broad-brimmed hat, fitted boots... matching in darkness, they serve only amplify it. A mado brush, his exception, rests across both knees.

Reactions vary according to age. Younger residents gawk at the mount and the visitor, attaching neither name nor history nor title. Only power and perhaps some small wealth.

Most who know better go inside and quietly shut their doors. Others freeze. Few have courage to whisper to one another as Cenric Asher dismounts, impassive as he ties his beast to a pole once used by chocobo porters.

It could break away if it wanted to. It doesn't.

Irises without color scan what residents remain.

Stop.

Teeth emerge from under lips curling involuntarily. His eyes widen.

"You," he says, and at twenty-six cycles his voice is deep and steady as he gestures with the staff. "Come here. There's a small favor I would ask."

Two figures. One, a boy of perhaps ten. Dusty brown hair, a large-boned frame typical of his people that only promises to become more pronounced with age. Dark eyes. A nervous smile in return.

And there, positioned just in front of him, is his highlander mother.

She's likely approaching forty, now. The same stubborn set to her jaw, same narrow eyes, same auburn hair. Something tired lining her cheeks, perhaps, but with those features frozen in horror as they are such details take a back seat.

The boy tugs her elbow uncertainly, glancing between the outsider and the dread he evokes. Cenric's smile grows as if it has a life of its own. Devoid of warmth. He tilts the end of his brush in a small, leisurely circle. Beckoning.

He does not, even for an instant, look away.

The woman forces a smile in turn. Delicately removes her son's hand. Begins to advance.

"Ah," says Cenric, "both of you, if you please. It won't be long."

For several seconds, they remain caught in each others' scrutiny. There is an animal tension in the way they grin at one another.

"Come with me," murmurs the highlander woman, "it's alright."

She, with the boy in tow, closes the gap.

"Forgive me," says Cenric, tilting the staff to rest against his shoulder. Unblinking. "For all the fond memories I have of this place your name escapes."

"Eona," she says, almost a whisper.

"And yours?" says Cenric, attention shifting to the child.

Nothing.

"His name," says Eona, placing a hand on her son's shoulder, "is Varin."

She squeezes gently. Reassuringly.

Cenric's expression remains unmoved.

"I don't mean to stay," he says lightly. "There's a visit I should have made long ago. Circumstances." Finally, he looks away—gaze darting to the inn, fallen from use. He licks his lips nervously. The smile doesn't drop.

"I'd like to see my father's grave," he says, with the air of someone requesting the price of bread or discussing weather.

Silence.

"I'm sorry," breathes Eona, "there isn't one. We… we burned the body afterward."

Cenric's expression remains frozen. The only change comes from the way his face gradually drains to gray.

"Can you show me," he replies evenly, "where the remains were destroyed?"

Eona opens her mouth. Closes it again. Looks at her feet and nods.

"Follow me."

* * *

They walk in an uncomfortable silence. The mage's eyes flit between buildings, between faces. He grips his staff tightly, close to his chest. Varin, holding his mother's hand, sometimes glances back at him. If Cenric notices he gives no indication.

The location they arrive at isn't marked. Perhaps one hundred yalms from the entrance to a nearby cavern. It takes some moments for the Highlanders to realize their charge has fallen behind.

"…Mr. Asher," says Eona.

The Warrior of Light has gone still, gaze fixed to the cave. Features blank. He does not respond.

"Ma," whispers Varin, "we should go."

Eona exhales through her nose. Her lips thin.

"Mr. Asher," she repeats, louder this time.

Cenric flinches. Turns.

The space is distinguished by a small, rocky outcropping. No trees grow, no markers stand.

"This is the place," says Eona, gesturing. "Immin… your father didn't deserve what happened."

A slight inclination of the head in acknowledgment. Nothing more.

Very slowly, cautiously, she begins drawing Varin away toward the town. Keeping distance.

"Tell me," says Cenric abruptly, without inflection, "do you love your son?"

Eona watches him for several moments. Searching.

When she answers, it is the most natural thing in the world.

"I would die for him."

The Warrior of Light recoils as if struck. "You…" she thinks he means to say, his mouth working around an idea he won't voice. Cenric is very still after that, and then he only brings one hand to his eyes. Keeps it there.

"Go," he says quietly. "Leave me."

Eona remains motionless. She watches with the silent revelation that what stands before her is only a man, neither more nor less.

"Ma," Varin whispers louder. Insistently. His mother nods, and the smile she offers him is apologetic.

"Sorry, love," she tells him. "Come on."

When they depart, Eona doesn't look back.

* * *

Alone, Cenric kneels before an unremarkable space. His shoulders tremble and shudder occasionally. No sound escapes.

After what might be minutes or hours or an eternity, he uses his staff to leverage himself upright once more.

"Thank you," he says to the empty air.

Black magic is a destructive discipline. It cannot be used to give or create anything new.

It can, however, change what exists irrevocably.

A familiar power arcs chest to limbs. It drives through earth and fingertips both, reconnects in a blaze of electricity. Again and again and again. Lightning branches through sand like nerves or veins, like paths between stars or frost on glass.

There is still no gravestone left behind. Immin's body has long since scattered to the wind and it would be dishonest to pretend otherwise. This place where he left the earth, however, will bear a scar.


End file.
